Laments & Observations

For a pop culture enthusiast such as myself, all this Charlie Sheen stuff is overwhelming. At some point I’m going to have to just look away, because there aren’t enough hours in my day to get laundry done lately, let alone spend time listening to cocaine-fueled psychosis. The “winning” jokes alone are enough to complete my sensory overload daily.

Just got back from a weekend in Orlando with Sister, brother-in-law and this cute little thing:

Those tiny little arms are edible

She’s about to turn four and that’s just hard for me to believe. As anyone who’s ever been around a kid that age knows, they can be a loud tornado of roiling emotions but I truly enjoyed her. The fact she calls me “Aunt Sistee” doesn’t hurt the cute meter any either, and she wasn’t even shy with me at the beginning of the visit this time. She’s smart like both her parents, stubborn like my sister and has a very funny little personality. The sucky part is how little I get to see her, because the old cliche’ about them growing and changing so fast is definitely true. I just want her to know she has an aunt who may seem far away but who loves her a lot.

Sister and I also did what we like doing together the most and went to see Kid Rock for the billionth time.

Never gets old

I’ve honestly almost lost count, but I’m pretty sure it’s her 9th time seeing him and my 10th. We’re not above feeling a little ridiculous about it sometimes, but apparently it floats our boats so who gives a crap. He just turned 40 himself and he’s the one jumping around on the stage without a shirt on, so there’s no reason for us to feel embarrassed for being fully dressed in the audience. Not to mention we were far from the oldest ones in attendance. /Justification

I always get stressed about traveling and then once I’m back home I feel happy, refreshed and excited about planning my next trip. It’s a vicious cycle, but the good news is there’s always plenty of material for my therapist. Talk about winning – she gets to listen to people like me all day. I’d send her a fruit basket if I wasn’t already helping pay for her Mercedes and recent trip to the tropics.

I finally reached my down payment goal, so I’m hoping to start car shopping this weekend. After a year of sharing the Sanford & Son truck with Pig Pen, it’s going to feel luxurious to be in my own vehicle again. I have in mind what I want, but there are a lot of variables (mainly the mystery that is my credit rating at the moment) so I’m trying not to get my hopes up too much but they kind of are. It’s kind of an exciting purchase in one’s life and I’ve always enjoyed my car time, so I’m psyched about it.

I don’t know how it’s possible I’m turning forty-two Sunday. When people say “I don’t feel (insert age),” I totally get that, because I don’t. I still listen to Eminem. I find South Park, Family Guy, the Jackass franchise and farting to be way funnier than any cartoon I’ve ever seen in the New Yorker. I’m going to my tenth Kid Rock concert in a few weeks. I watch Glee. I mean…are these normal enjoyments for someone well into their 40’s? Somehow I didn’t picture this way back when I was still feeling like a teenager in my 30’s. Really the only changes I’ve noticed are that I pay more attention to moisterizers, small print is starting to look swimmy even when I’m wearing my glasses and after a couple of nights of staying up too late, I go on coma-like sleeping benders to recover.

The in-laws are on my last nerve lately. And by in-laws I mean pretty much his entire family. It happens this way sometimes, where because we moved back here (by choice, let’s not forget to rub that in to me when I’m bitching about stuff like this) partially to be close to them, there are periods of time it seems they are all up in our grills (yeah, forty-something white women probably shouldn’t be using that phrase either) and demanding our time and attention. And while I do enjoy them most of the time, especially the ones on his dad’s side who I can comfortably curse in front of, Brian is literally being pulled in two different directions right now as we speak, trying to fit into his work day doing something for his dad while having spent the last three days doing something else for his step-dad. Who called me up Saturday to help him “vacuum” a house that would be better served burned to the ground. I guess I’m not the only one who has trouble telling people no because that doesn’t seem to be in his vocabulary when it comes to his family lately. What happened to the long-haired twenty-three year old Prodigal son I met in a bar? Fifteen years, I guess. And the stupid part is, I love that he cares so much about family so then I feel like a whiny bitch for saying something to him about it. At least I have the birthday excuse to pull this weekend and oh yes, I will utilize it.

I was rushing around Friday, trying to grab a quick bite to eat before the monthly therapy appointment and dropped my phone into a toilet. It was one of those situations that seemed like it was happening in slow motion and my brain was screaming NOOOO. By the end of the day I was the shocked but happy owner of a Droid. By yesterday I was no longer happy, as I have no idea how to use most of the cool features I was once so happy about. When I get a spare hour, I’m heading to Sprint to either get a lesson on usage or to trade the damn thing for something that doesn’t make me feel like a simpleton.

As much as I talk about fall, winter, snow, I want it, I love it, fireplace, blah blah – I think I have a little case of spring fever going on at the moment. We’ve had schizo weather this winter and here lately some cold/gray/wet/bone aching days. Then every so often a sunny high fifties day will pop up and I notice my mood and energy level immediately improves. I give serious credit to the people I know who live in unforgiving climes this time of year (Heather, my NY relatives) for not turning into Jack Nicholson from The Shining. I wouldn’t blame any of them for hacking through a door with an ax, all HERE’S JOHNNY after dealing with the nastiness for months on end. Serious props for that, because I know deep down I need variety in my weather like Charlie Sheen with his porny friends to be truly happy.

I’m getting really close to my goal for the down payment I want to have for a new vehicle. It’s been almost a full year of driving that beast which is really a work truck in the sense it’s Brian’s so it’s always dirty and filled with things needing to be taken to the dump. Whatever I get is going to feel luxurious and like MINE ALL MINE. I’m really looking forward to it. That, and I’m buying myself a bicycle for my birthday. New transportation all over this place! And in keeping it age-appropriate, I have my eyes on a purple Huffy right now, one that will look so cute with a plastic daisy basket and the Justin Bieber license plate I have picked out. Oh, I’m kidding about that last part. It’s obviously an Eminem plate, personalized that reads “The real Kim Shady.” Obviously.

I’ve pretty much always had an unhealthy obsession with Gwyneth Paltrow. Way back when, in the mid-to-late 90’s, it was for all the normal celebrity obsess-worthy reasons: she was the cool It Girl; skinny, blond, the girl Brad Pitt called “my angel” in an awards speech. The girl who then had the balls to cheat on Brad Pitt and rebound with Ben Affleck and win an Oscar and kill it on SNL.

But that was then. And oh how much fun it is to see the mighty fall. Somewhere along the way she married a douchey British rock star, have two kids she gave hideously pretentious names and renounced the United States as being too pedestrian for her newly acquired Olde English mentality. Apparently having Steven Speilberg as a godparent wasn’t cool enough for little Gwennie anymore.

And then, as if the level of fuckery wasn’t already approaching its peak, she went and started a “lifestyle” newsletter. Thought it’d be a super idea to name it GOOP. (She should never be allowed to name anything again, ever, including pets)A cute play on her initials? Her nickname when she was a kid? Does it matter? In it, she does us all the huge favor of sharing her unsolicited advice on where we should stay during our holidays abroad, how to stay in shape like she does by eating a macro-biotic diet and co-owning a gym with Tracy Anderson and working out forty hours a week; in other words the amount of time most of us spend earning money to try to keep an unleaky roof over our heads and put some non-organic but maybe sometimes namebrand food on our tables every night. It is to laugh, if to not instead become violent.

The latest edition of GOOP (seriously that’s the name that made the cut?) to me worse than usual. It describes a day in the life of working mothers: she, Stella McCartney and some other fancy important well-toned friend of hers. I’m too lazy to link it; it’s easy enough to Google GOOP, even for us unlearned commoners. But seriously – read it if you want a hearty laugh. What I did to extend the fun even further was to compare her day in the life to one of mine.

6:45am – alarm goes off; one of us hits snooze. Depending on the quality/quantity of sleep the night before this act can be repeated anywhere from two to five times. Sometimes along with the alarm comes the bonus of my dedicated and loving spouse’s ass-trumpet upon which earns him several punches in the arm, ribs or as close as I dare to his groinal area. It’s important to keep that physical relationship consistent, after all.

7:15am – prepare Maxwell House Original Roast ground coffee for the both of us and because I care deeply about my loved one’s nutrition, I sometimes remember to throw two Little Debbie Pecan Spinwill cakes at him as he heads for the door. After I’m certain he’s actually gone (because odds are amazingly high he will be back within seconds to grab his phone, wallet, paperwork – whichever item he’s forgotten that day), I strip down to nothing, including removing of all jewelry and step on the scale. Whatever the number says dictates my mood for the next hour or two and there might even be a tearful peptalk in the shower if the number is too high for my liking. Crying burns calories after all, so I’m utilizing GP’s advice for multi-tasking in the shower! (That’s not a joke; she really suggests it)

8:35 – 8:45am – arrive at work. Even though they’ve recently changed our start time to 8:30, I have a rebellious free-spirit I must pay homage to and it refuses to allow me to be on time. Not sure when this started; must be true what they say about getting older and no longer giving a shit about so many things.

9:30 – 10am – unless something irregular is going on, this is when I am usually just finishing up coffee and perusing celebrity gossip sites – like ones that make fun of GOOP! and actually begin working.

11:30am – 1:00pm – depending on how busy/hungry/bored/antsy I’m feeling that day, I will at some point during this period leave the office for my lunch hour. I use the term “hour” loosely, as more often than not it’s actually more of a lunch hour-and-a-half. It’s all about nourishing one’s inner child, right? Weather permitting, I may use this time to take a brisk, reviving walk around the campus or, if I’m feeling a little life has no meaningy, I’ll head to Target and see what treasures there might be to bring about that instant gratification we’re all so fond of.

2pm – 5pm – if I could make myself as groggy and lethargic at bedtime as I feel during this time of the day, I’d never have to medicate myself to go to sleep again. The dual temptation of sugar and caffeine are never as evident as they are now. Gwyneth would use this opportunity for a self-control exercise; I usually have a Diet Coke and seethe.

6pm – depending on how grueling the seven-mile commute was that day, like maybe I had to stop off at one of our local southern delicacy food markets, the Piggly Wiggly, the Bi Lo or the Walmart, I may unwind for a little while before starting our dinner. By “unwind,” of course I mean putting things away that didn’t get done the night before and preparing the kitchen to once again get used. In the winter months this is especially important, as it takes a fresh clean atmosphere to create the cheap and starchy concoctions I like to prepare for that optimal and cliche’ winter weight gain.

7pm – ? – ah, my favorite time of the day. This is the “quality time” all those marital advice books talk about, where you and your significant other reconnect, bond and relish in each other’s company. For us this means both laptops open, books being read and current events being discussed, some proofing work for me perhaps, because much like Gwyneth, I’m also a woman of many pursuits though unlike Gwyneth, this additional job allows me to actually have money in a savings account. And all this romantic activity is always, ALWAYS underscored by the neverending drone of the TV in the background, as my A.D.D.-addled spouse finds it most relaxing to have as many of his senses stimulated as simultaneously as possible. If you want to infer that sexually, go ahead but I can assure you that’s not how it was meant.

Of course bedtime is never a set time, as I suffer from both insomnia and what I think is probably a mild form of narcolepsy as I can barely keep my eyes open until I get into bed to try to sleep.

I’d love to see Gwyneth live one day, one DAY the life of one of us. My guess is she’d hold out until around lunchtime. You go, poseur.

Saturday night I went to my eighth Kid Rock concert. A little excessive but there was no way I was passing up this show: September 11th, a tribute for the troops, held at Fort Jackson, the Army base whose entrance gate is .6 miles from my driveway. After all the miles I’ve traveled to see him this was a no-brainer. And though Delorme had told me he was also going wanted us to meet up, I kind of already had my mind made up I was going by myself. That’s a cool check-off for a bucket list: Attend concert alone. I’ve wanted to do it ever since I met a woman in 1994 at Woodstock who was there alone and traveling around the world after leaving her husband. The original Eat, Pray, Love lady, in my opinion and way cooler than Julia Roberts. /Digression

I know the type of audience he attracts: families, rednecks, bikers – and the average age always seems to be around my age or maybe even slightly older. I knew I’d be among my people. And I was for awhile. Knowing it was a general admission show, I obviously went hours ahead of time to secure a spot close to the stage. Once there I met an extremely nice lesbian couple and we were having a fine time. A seriously awesome moment occured when to our right, across the field, the troops all started to arrive in their camo, appearing from the distant horizon. As they were approaching, we all spontaneously stood up and applauded them. Chills all over my freaking body. This, I thought to myself, is how to spend September 11th.

I should’ve stayed right there, with Patty and Beth. But after the opening band started, I realized I wanted to be a little closer to the stage. Greedy bastard. I regretfully bid the ladies farewell and they told me they’d save my spot in case things got too rough. I was able to make my way closer, to the point I was probably twenty feet away. The crowd was packed tightly, but again I seemed to be surrounded by cool people.

The sun had set, there was finally a breeze blowing and a thin white curtain fell as they changed the stage set. To me, the most exciting part of a concert is that moment the performer(s) enter. After that there are highlights like when they sing your favorite songs or maybe some audience interaction or whatever, but nothing compares to that first sight of him. So that happened and it was great as always. People were shuffling around and the usual dancing and bouncing and all that – which is fine and to be expected. I was feeling a little claustrophobic, but that’s more due to my shortness than anything else and as long as I was able to look up and see him and breathe and repeat my mantra – I’m not in a mosh pit and I’m sober, I’m not in a mosh pit and I’m sober – I was okay.

Enter the girl. Drunky McStupid started pushing her way into our little group, trying to get in front of us. We had all decided nobody else was going to do that and did the whole linking arms thing to form a barricade. It had been successful up to that point, but this bitch wasn’t having it. Pushing and shoving, sloshing around the two cups of beer she was holding, I thought, Oh shit – here we go. Then I thought it’s a damn good thing Brian isn’t here, because he doesn’t like when I make scenes and I had a strong feeling I was about to make one.

The shoving was happening at regular intervals and finally after several verbal exchanges, I shoved back. All I could think was, Goddammit, either my necklace or my damn glasses are about to get broken. This bitch. I guess because I’m old, I didn’t want any of my personal effects to be a casuality of stupidity and whether that stupidity was from me being forty-one at a rock concert or some drunk asshole, it doesn’t matter. More insults were traded, fuck-you’s were bandied about and her beer breath and sweaty boobs were seriously invading my personal space. Then she pushed me and pulled my hair. I thought what a classic girl move that is – hair pulling. Then I guess something in me snapped, and I threw a punch. Luck, definitely not skill, was in play because it landed on her jaw. I don’t really know who was more shocked. We looked at each other and I had time to question whether or not I was about to get hit back, when a couple of people started clapping and some guy said I have a good right hook. Her friends dragged her off back into the crowd and for the next half hour I stood there, my heart pounding, sweating, shaking and thinking Oh my God, I just hit someone. I felt nauseous. But then also kind of good. When you’re like me, a non-confrontational, always apologizing for things whether they’re my fault or not, mild and WIMP, something like this is pretty big. I’m not exactly proud of myself, but I’m not completely ashamed either. I’m trying to look at it as a step in the right direction to a more assertive self, something I’ve struggled with my whole life. And hopefully I can achieve it without punching anyone else, but hey – sometimes you have to get your point across, you know?

That night I thought I was going to only knock one thing off my life list, but what do you know.

I rented Jennifer’s Body the other night and as is my habit after seeing a movie, I went to IMDB to read about it. Well, that led me to a black hole of an Internety time-suck that lasted hours, which kind of threw off my whole day but I guess that’s what vacation is for, right? Sure.

The movie is essentially made by women, with women, and for women (I don’t care who you are, Megan Fox is hot. Vapid as a piece of lettuce, but really hot) “unconventional,” in the sense that I guess it’s still rare for the horror genre that a woman is in the role of monster with men (boys, to be specific) being the victims. It only really shocked me in the similar sense that “Monster” with Charlize Theron was disturbing, except of course that was actually based on a true story so that creepy feeling you get is a little different. But also similar. Yeah, I don’t know either.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that it’s a little disconcerting at this advanced stage of the game that a ruckus is still stirred when a woman dips her little pedicured toe into the Man pool and comes up with something entertaining and marketable. Some of the comments I read about the movie’s writer/producer Diablo Cody (disclaimer: I am a fan) were downright scary in their misogynistic tone and content. I mean, sure – judge an artist on their talent; isn’t that what the Internets are for, us armchair critics? (And yes, some of her dialogue makes me cringe but I always recover quickly.) But in a movie discussion forum to bring up what she wears, how she looks, how trashy her tattoos are, the fact she used to be a stripper which obviously means she was also a hooker – the fuck? I love Kevin Smith too, but most of the criticism about him pertains mainly to the point people still think he’s a hack after over a decade of successful movies and projects, not that he’s going bald, is overweight, has the wardrobe of a frat boy and used to work in a convenience store.

I don’t usually climb up on many soapboxes, let alone the feminism one, because I don’t like spending a lot of time on what I still think is a mostly pointless battle. I like cooking dinner and somewhat catering to my husband and I appreciate when doors are opened for me. But hot damn, some of the shit we still, STILL go through on a consistent basis amazes the hell out of me. Is it just that it’s more subtle now and disguised by political correctness that makes it less noticeable?

I realize too that some of it is geographical and I am in an old, mid-sized city in the South. I try not to get offended when some old dude calls me Honey or Sweetheart or as is the case many times here, Darlin’. It’s how they grew up and all that. Plus it’s fun being called Darlin’ when the right person says it with the right accent. And I understand the Man-as-head-of-household is still pretty prevalent around here, as it’s both culturally and religiously been practiced here for-freaking-ever.

Brian grew up in a household like that and on occasion when I see his mom defer to George when she technically shouldn’t, I cringe a little inside. At the same time I’m thankful Brian grew up with many independent thoughts and opinions that completely differ from his parents (had he not, I doubt he would’ve married a Jew). Can he be a little piggish at times? Sure. I think it’s part of his DNA. But do I call him on it? Every time. Does that change anything though? Not really. Am I ever going to stop answering my own questions? I doubt it.

Sister and I have had many, many conversations regarding male/female division of responsibilities. Sadly, it will never, EVER be the case that a husband/boyfriend will be judged on a messy household or an unsuccessful dinner party. It makes no nevermind that most women now work full-time jobs, as many long hours as their male partners if not more, but are still strapped with the majority of the domestic tasks. Well, and This Just In: Life’s not fair.

However. There’s a reason I married the person I did. I’m not attracted to weak, sensitive men. I’ve been friends with a few of those and it’s lovely in the way that deep discussions about make-up with your girlfriend is nice. I’m glad there are these sensitive, enlightened fellows around. But I know that’s not what would make me happy in the longrun. Brian’s fucking socks on the floor right in front of the goddam hamper are still worth putting up with for the other (schwing!) things he provides me with.

I think it all boils down to a respect thing. Maybe there just needs to be more of it all the way around and then we can go from there.

As the minutes tick tock toward the new year, we’re looking forward to a quiet evening tonight. It is exactly what I prefer for this particular holiday, especially since we’re heading home tomorrow and that drive dictates you be in top form or suffer the consequences. It’s been a great vacation, one I knew would go by way too quick, one where I wouldn’t get to spend as much time or even see everyone I wanted and one that is already starting to blur together in my head. No complaints though; it’s been a blast.

Most people I know are saying they are damn glad 2009 is over. Between the economy, losing a freakish amount of celebrities, political embarrassments and disappointments and personal crap, it has been a mighty challenging year for a lot of us. I don’t like wishing time away, but I am pretty stoked we’re about to start nice fresh clean calendars tomorrow.

Of course my personal quest to become a parent was what took up the majority of the first 3/4’s of it and I dealt with a lot of big disappointment because of it. But Brian and I were talking the other day (many consecutive hours together in a vehicle makes that easy) and he said one of the things he’s always admired about me is that instead of just bitching about a problem or giving up, I usually find a solution for it. Sometimes it may take me awhile, but if it’s important enough, I do it. That was one of the best compliments I’ve ever received from him or anyone else. And he’s right; if I want this as badly as I know I still do, I will find a way. Without reenacting a live version of Raising Arizona, I will find a way.

So, I’m not one of those resolution people, but I will say this. I do have some GOALS for this coming year. A few small ones and a couple of doozies. It’s intimidating, but without a challenge what is all this for, anyway? My worst fear is becoming complacent and stagnant, an object at rest. It’s up to no one else but me to make sure that never happens. I’m up for it.

File this under Stating the Obvious, but wow has this been a shitty year for celebrities. The news of Brittany Murphy’s death yesterday capped off what’s been a totally surreal few months Re: death of famous people. Like many people, when I first read about her I immediately thought, Oh okay –cokeheadtweeker + cardiac arrest = not surprising. Which then kind of made me feel bad because that’s mean. It could’ve been something else. But then later last night I read about how her husband didn’t want an autopsy done and then I was back to thinking, yeah it was drugs. Either way, sad.

Drugs. I’ve dabbled. If you know me IRL, you know my story. If you don’t, well, it’s a pathetic story that shames and embarrasses me to this day even though it’s been several years since I got the problem looked at and taken care of. That’s not to mean I take “recovery” lightly; I still do proactive things on a daily basis to ensure the problem never returns.

Before I caught a habit, I was pretty cocky about the whole thing. I figured since I knew my mom’s alcohol issues and by the time I was in my late 20’s I was pretty much over drinking, I was okay. And then with other substances I tried, nothing ever stuck so hey, look at me – all moderation and shit. Even with pot, probably the least dangerous (imo), I finally reached the point where I didn’t like it anymore and simply stopped smoking. Yay, me.

But then a bunch of shit happened in a relatively short period of time; bad, life-changing shit. The oft-documented Bad Time with Brian and in the midst of all that the death of my dad. I consciously knew substituting various pills for food wasn’t the healthiest choice, especially when the dog got used to following me into the bathroom to sit there nervously and watch me throw up. It did wonders for my waistline but probably not many favors for my liver.

Strangely Xanax, something I’ve been prescribed on and off over the years, has never been a problem for me. (Maybe because I actually use it for what it’s meant for? Gee, what a concept.) Anxiety issues run rampant in my genes and I’m thankful my current doctor who knows my drug history sees fit to trust me with this drug. No, the pills I like are unfortunately all of the pain variety. Makes things tricky when I occasionally need things done like dental work or God forbid my shitty back starts to act up.

Opiates don’t play, either. I’m sure you’ve heard of heroin? Yeah well, a lot of pill poppers fool themselves into thinking they’re A-ok because at least they’ve never sunk that low. Heroin users are back alley street junkies or rich skanky rock stars. Totally different than the white, middle-aged wife/mother/contributing member of society who keeps her drugs stored and sorted neatly in her little orange child-proof capped prescription bottles. Totally different. Except exactly the same. No, I never injected heroin into my body. But use your imagination and yes, I probably did that and that and oh right, that too. Everything else.

And trust me when I say withdrawals do not discriminate. When you haven’t slept for four days, have turned every clock in your house around backwards so you don’t see how every minute is lasting an hour, freezing cold and also burning up, gushing sweat, pacing, and balancing your ass on the toilet and your face in a trash can so your body can expel everything simulataneously, well, you stop feeling so goddamn righteous over never having shot up.

Before I experienced all that, I didn’t understand the attraction of drugs. People like John Belushi and River Phoenix and Chris Farley (and, and, and) really pissed me off. How can you have that much talent, that big of a life, mean so much to so many people and throw it away to get high. Your life is that miserable that you can’t bear to live it? Well, yes. Yes, that’s the whole point.

Luckily for me, I do value my life. And I’m a chickenshit. And a guilty person who never wants to disappoint people. I never had a death wish, even during the worst of times. It’s hard to put into words, but what I did want was…a break. A little vacation from the relentless THOUGHTS that kept coming and coming and coming. Not to be nodding off comatose or tripping the light fantastic in another dimension or tweaked out of my mind, but just…peace. To have all the sharp edges nice and rounded off and maybe a little blurry.

And I completely sympathize with anyone else seeking it. Life sometimes sucks the big one. But it’s still totally worth it.

I can’t express how excited I was when I found out one of my favorite writers ever was coming to one of your Columbia stores for a book signing this Saturday. For the last few days I’ve been checking around to see where I’d get the best deal on the new book since money’s a little tight and also because it’s getting less than stellar reviews. Of course I own all of his books and so this one would be no different, but it’s hard out there for a Jew and I get most of my book action from Amazon, bartering or the library these days.

I was also gleefully trying to decide which one of his others I’d bring from my personal collection to have him sign since the lady employee I spoke with on the phone told me he will sign up to two books. The cook book/autobiography one for my mom that would thrill her to no end? Beach Music? My copy of Prince of Tides since that’ll always be my favorite? Decisions!

It wasn’t very easy sneaking away from work today during this, what has turned out to be the biggest asspain of a week ever and drive the twenty-two miles across town to pick up my number I need to secure my place in line Saturday morning, but I did it; I mean, getting books signed by the author to someone like me is like bucket list material, you know? I was all excited to get my number, number 259. It brought me back to the Harry Potter midnight book buying parties and how much I used to love thos.

And then I read the guidelines.

I have to buy the new book and any of his old ones I want his signature on at one of YOUR stores and show my receipt as proof? At YOUR prices, which are consistently the highest of all the book store chains around?

You know what, Books-A-Mil? Screw you. After looking forward to this all damn week, now I don’t know what, if anything, I’m going to do about this. And I suck at decision making.

This is neither new nor groundbreaking and it’s been going on for most of my life. Well since tweendom at the very least.

I care too much about celebrities.

I know I’m not alone in this because if I were, things like US Weekly, Entertainment Tonight and half the Internet wouldn’t exist. Not that that makes me feel much better, but it always helps a little when you know you’re not alone in your psychosis. Ask anyone in AA; they’ll tell you the same thing.

I feel it’s a fairly unharmful obsession hobby. Besides an unmailed fan letter to Stephen King in 1985 and getting the balls to stand up and ask Kevin Smith a question at one of his Q & A’s last year, I’ve never attempted to go out of my way to make contact with anyone famous. I’ve stalked, sure, but only in my mind. Well, there was the time Sister and I spent hundreds of dollars on self-addressed stamped envelopes trying to win an All Access Trip to Toyko with Bon Jovi before reading the fine print and finding out Florida residents were not allowed to enter the fucking contest – I’ll see you in Hell, MTV, but even that wasn’t a total waste, as both of us got passports out of the deal and how useful is that? Ah, the early 90’s.

Apparently though, just because I feel this is an innocent pasttime, not everyone around me has always felt the same way. My first serious boyfriend, a tall, skinny, funny-looking-but-nevertheless-cocky dweebhole named George had big problems with my strong feelings toward Michael Jackson and Prince. So much so that I was finally forced to take down my hundreds of pictures and posters that covered my bedroom walls because I was sick of hearing about it all the time. I eventually wised up though and instead of having fights over Eddie Murphy as well, I simply told him my curfew was 1 a.m. on Friday nights and 11:30 p.m. on Saturday nights so I could be home in time to watch SNL every week. My brilliance is really underestimated sometimes.

Brian deals with it really well most of the time. There have been plenty of times when he might be staying up late, sees something about Kid Rock on the channel guide and tapes it for me. Or listens patiently and shares his opinion when I excitedly tell him some dirty gossip about someone famous. He’s really pretty good about it all. Except sometimes. We were having a sort-of-but-not-really argument a few weeks ago when he exclaimed that he wasn’t interested in hearing whatever I was telling him right at that moment. I snippily answered back with, “Well I don’t always care to talk about POLITICS, but I know you care about THAT, so I DO.” And like the always-has-an-answer-for-everything fucker he is, he said, “Well POLITICS, unlike CELEBRITIES, directly affect our lives!” I hate when he does that. And by “that” I mean “is right about something we’re arguing about.”

But. Leave it to Sister to give me the comeback I needed a few weeks too late. We were taking a walk around the hotel the other night, discussing all aspects of life and whatnot. She shares my deep celebrity love and we were talking about it and how our husbands are cool for the most part except when they aren’t. Then she said it. “They can’t really say that much to us about it though, when all this is is our sports!”

Holy hell, did she hit the nail on the head with that one. It’s so true. They get insane over football, basketball, whateverball and we (for the most part) enthusiastically support them. This is just like that except replace athlete recruiting, scores, stats, plays, records, and weekend-long, non-stop obnoxious announcers (I’m looking at you, Lee Corso) screaming in our living rooms with celebrity overdoses, marriages, divorces, pregnancies and bad plastic surgery.

I can’t believe I’ve never thought of the comparison before. Sister always has been smarter than me, after all.

But I’m SO prepared the next time he has a smartass comment. Because there will be a next time, oh yes there will be. Given that the college football season kicks off (Ha – I bet nobody’s ever used that one before) in a little less than a month, I’m sure the opportunity will present itself soon. Oh, I’m not saying I don’t enjoy some of it too – we live in a big college town smack in the middle of the Southeastern Conference and I work at the same place the Gamecocks call home. I get it and I like it. And I’m very happy for Brian, who every year at this time loses his mind (present year included) and can’t even talk about it without doing a little dance and excitedly pummeling the arm rests of the couch.

That’s all well and good. But the next time I read him something from Perez, he better at least FAKE some interest and recognize that he likes things as trivial as I do and sometimes life doesn’t always have to be all serious. Is all I’m sayin’.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go pick up this month’s issue of Vanity Fair – Heath Ledger is on the cover.

Such a busy day I didn’t have time to blog – the horror! But a seriously good day, so no biggie.

I try to save the exercise stuff for the other blog, but I just have to say this. Sometimes it’s so good to get out of your little box, whether that be your home or office and just walk, man. (Walkman? Remember the days before mp3 players, old farts like me?) I volunteered to go pick up our office mail today across campus and noticed while I was out the weather was exceedingly pleasant. This is a rarity here in the summer months so whenever it happens I try to take full advantage and be outside as much as possible. And I may be biased (definitely), but the University of South Carolina is really a beautiful campus. And trust me, I’ve seen a few.

In the years since I’ve been gone it’s been beautified and refurbished even more, and it sounds stupid since I go to work there every day, but I rarely see it since my office is in a building a little ways apart from the main part of campus. I really need to get out more. I spent my entire lunch hour walking to the main campus bookstore and figured out something important. South Carolina is A LOT hillier (is that a word? I don’t care) than Florida. A big no-shitter, right? But seriously. We’re a good two hours from any honest-to-goodness mountains, but there are some serious elevations here too, when you consider I spent a good portion of my life ten feet above sea level. I miss many things about Florida, but that’s not one of them.

By the time I got back to the office I was sweaty, red-faced and jello-legged (flip flops probably weren’t the best footwear choice, but I obviously didn’t plan this to happen today), but man I felt excellent. It didn’t hurt I made a couple of purchases in the Barnes & Noble part of the book store, oops. Finally, finally found Common Sense by Glenn Beck, a book I’ve been trying to buy for Brian for over a week (is Amazon broken? Because seriously) and yeah I’ll go ahead and admit it: Storytelling by Tori Spelling for myself. (You can say what you want about her, but that has to be the coolest book title to writer name rhyme in the history of books.) I’ve never read romance novels, I hate Danielle Steele and Mary Higgins Clark, so yes – one must get their summer reading fluff somewhere, right? I started watching her stupid show on Oxygen and somehow got all into it. Don’t ask me. And don’t judge, lest ye be smited with my wand of smite.

And, AND, after hemming and hawing and scheduling and re-scheduling, I think I may actually have my Florida trip planned – finally. The problem with going there is, and I’m not exaggerating this, about twenty different people I want to see and spend time with and they’re spread out in three different cities. Everyone has stuff going on, everyone is busy, but they all also want to see me whenever I’m there. I am loved there, and I am lucky for that. Plus the fact my uncle is having serious surgery the day before I’m arriving, so that lends an air of obligation to the whole thing. I am pretty sure I have it finalized though and it looks like I’ll be leaving home on the 24th and returning on the 31st. Give or take.

Since my damn sister’s husband (I’m not cursing him; I love him) has to be out of town for work that week and she was planning on going with him, I’ve revised visiting them in Orlando and instead will be stopping in Columbus, GA where they’ll be for the week to spend a couple of nights with them in the hotel there. That little girl they made two years ago (and them too, of course) is a big part of why I want to go so badly, so hey – family slumber party in a hotel room. I’ve been to Columbus before, strangely enough, for a wedding. Luckily we don’t need much outside stimulus when we’re together in order to have a good time because the place isn’t what I’d call your typical vacation destination.

It doesn’t matter. I’m soon to see a lot of people I love vurry vurry much and I can’t wait.